Thursday, September 30, 2010

  Boy Meets Girl
Boy meets girl.
Boy asks girl for a date.
Boy    seduces girl.
Boy and girl participate in
under the cover,    
      unprotected    sex.
Boy oh boy.
Boy and girl have sex again.   
And again.
Repeat.     Repeat.    Repeat.
Boy and girl are mighty damn frisky,
   if you get my    meaning.

Boy somehow manages to impregnate girl.
Boy does the right thing.
Boy pauses and thinks to himself,
“Who the hell come up with that phrase
‘Does the right thing’?”
Boy figures, “Alright,   fine.
Such is my lot in life, and
there’s not a damn thing I can do about it,
um… ‘cept ponder whether
   the person who coined
“Such is my lot in life” is the
same pecker-head who came up with
the guilt inducing sentence of
   “Do the right thing.”

Okay, now hold on!
This whole morality play of words
is obviously from a
male’s pointy head of view.
That’s not romance.
Let’s let a woman tell the story.

Um… Girl meets boy at bowling alley.
Girl finds boy cute in a
whimpering puppy what needs
a bit of cuddle    sort of way.

Hey!    I ain’t tellin’ the story.    
She is.     She found him cute.     
Go figure.

They spoon.
They swoon.
They croon.
They serenade beneath the moon.
They    swap    some     spit.

He asks if he might be able
to see her the following night.
Giddy with anticipation,
she says “Oh, yes.”
And there that following night
he picks her up and right off the bat
asks if it’s okay to go back to his place.
Rewind.        Re-roll.
Giddy with anticipation,    “Oh, yes.”

Now wait a second.
In chapter three, page sixty-two,
sub-paragraph four of
the woman’s field manual on
sexual relations with a male homo sapiens,
doesn’t it openly state that you are
never suppose to go to the fella’s pad
   on the very first date?
I guess her copy had a few pages ripped out.

Girl meets boy.
Girl ends up on boys couch.
Someone’s tongue ends up
in someone else’s mouth.
Don’t know whose.
Hey. She’s telling this story.
Not me.

He interrupts their   moment of passion
and excuses himself to the kitchen.
From where she’s sitting on the couch
she can see him digging around
   in the refrigerator.
Shortly, he closes the door
and vanishes down a hallway
to pass into view through an adjacent door
before disappearing into his bathroom.

And he’s in there a long time.
A    very long time.
She studies the ceiling;
the wallpaper;    the curtains;
the watermarks on the coffee table.

Presently the door opens
and he strolls across the carpet
to plop down beside her and
ease into her embrace
as if he’d never left.
And there again,
just as their passion reaches its crescendo,
he stands, pardons himself
and heads for the kitchen.
There again, his head in the fridge.
There again, the walk down the hall.
There again the open, close and click
   of the bathroom’s latch.

To her utter amazement,
she once more finds herself
alone on the couch
rearranging her disheveled clothes.
And this time,
he is locked away in the toilet
for a good twenty minutes or more.

She’s at the point of slumping down
into the cushions for a nap
when she hears the door unlatch again.
Stepping from the toilet,
his eyes meet hers and she can instantly tell
there’s something very different.
Indeed, that which is there,
spreads from pupils,
outward to eye sockets and further,
   to overwhelm his entire face.
In quick transition, a look of shock;
a look of fright;   a look of      anger.

And there from those lips
which had just been pressed against hers
come the following words: “Who are you?!
How the hell did you get into my house?!”

To this she starts to giggle and mutter a quizzical,
“er… What?” to his somewhat inappropriate joke,
when he overrides her with “Who the hell are you?!
How the fuck did you get in here?!”
And here she comes to realize
that there’s nothing funny
about his current ill-romantic demeanor.
Again she tries to utter a response of “What?”
but here is voice gets shrill and ever more frantic.
“I’m calling the police!
You better get the hell outta here, ‘cause…”
And here she suddenly hears
her own voice overriding his.
“What’s going on here?
Why are you acting like this?
I’m your date, god damn it!
Don’t you remember you and I
just now sitting on this couch?!”

It’s at this point she recalls his face
   altering yet again.
Its mutating from extreme anger
   to that of utmost pain.
And he    begins to sob.
Not just cry, but   sob.
He wanders over to the couch,
sits down, buries his head in hands
   and truly breaks down.
And yo! If there’s anything
that pushes a woman’s buttons
it’s when the man she finds worthy of sex
turns into the man she wants to kick in the groin,
but then quickly transitions
to the man she wants to
hold to her naked breast and nurse.

A maelstrom of manic emotion.
A macabre and malignant mix
of malnourished masculinity.
A magmatic magnum of mother’s milk,
primed for manly mammary mastication.
Madness.   Madness.   Madness.

I think it was right around
this point in the story
when those of us on the
outside of the asylum’s gates
decided to phone in an observation.
“So… um…
You got the fuck outta there, right?”

And here a serene smile forms upon her face.
“No.    Actually,
we’ve got another date this coming Friday.”

The mysteries of amour.

Boy meets girl.
Girl meets boy.
Someone’s forehead meets
   a meat-cleaver.
Not saying who.    ‘Cause
    you know…
Romance is always best when unpredictable.

Ah heck!
Who’s foolin’ who?

Doesn’t the boy
get the girl
in the end?

©2010 Jack Hubbell

1 comment:

ken said...

having two daughters, i look forward to reenacting this in the future.